


Uncertainty

by spycandy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/spycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An assassin's bullet and brotherly love, Holmes-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncertainty

Sherlock might not even have noticed the dramatic events unfolding on Victoria Station's large silent news screens, if the woman behind him in the coffee queue hadn't abruptly sworn and dived into her handbag for a phone. Normally the broadcast was all simplistic economics graphics or celebrity gossip – anything that commuters could be told in short sentences and bright pictures – and Sherlock was busy identifying places on the concourse where a murderer might have lurked while watching passengers leaving platform three the night before.

But the woman shrieking, “Oh my god, Charlie have you seen this? He's been shot! We'll have to cancel,” was enough to make him glance up at the screens.

It wasn't the headline, blaring “ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT ON VISITING FRENCH MINISTER” that caught Sherlock's attention though, nor was it the images of the white-haired energy minister suddenly dropping to the ground on Northumberland Avenue, nor the panicked crowd of officials and by-standers diving for cover behind cars and litter bins.

No, the sight that made him drop his just-served coffee and stare-opened mouthed was the smartly-suited man who strode towards the fallen Frenchman, then suddenly reeled backwards, propelled by another bullet.

There were only a few seconds of the footage, looping over and over. Sherlock watched it three times but the same stupid thing happened every time. Mycroft would stagger backwards two steps, then fall down behind a pointless bit of scrolling text about unemployment figures.

The camera swung away for a moment, running along the upper storeys of nearby buildings, fruitlessly seeking the origin of the shots. When it returned to the casualties on the road, Mycroft's ever-present assistant, was crouched low over his body, gesticulating to someone further away.

The footage abruptly cut to images of fighter jets and violence somewhere else in the world. As if anywhere else in the world could matter.

>>>

“Where to?” asked the cab driver, as Sherlock flung himself headlong into the back of the taxi.

“Not sure, turn on your radio.” The driver hesitated. “Do it! My destination depends on the news.”

As he had expected, the driver was already tuned to one of the London stations and there were still few enough facts known about the shooting that they quickly came around to the salient information.

“... The second victim was an as yet unnamed official, possibly from the Foreign Office or the security services, who stepped forward to protect the visiting dignitaries. Both victims were taken to the major trauma unit at St Mary's Hospital.”

“Right. There. St Mary's.”

“You connected to this business then?”

“That unnamed official. It's my brother.”

“Bloody hell,” said the driver, screeching away from the station's cab rank. “Have you there in a jiffy.”

>>>

The entrance to the major trauma unit was cluttered with woebegone French security people, who were having the worst day of their lives. Nothing said failure for the security services like having a minister shot.

Mycroft's PA was tucked in a corner, half-sitting on a windowsill, head bowed over her BlackBerry in spite of the notices instructing visitors to turn off their mobiles. “Last door on the right,” she told Sherlock, with the barest of glances in his direction. There was a handprint of dark blood on the hem of her skirt but her deadpan expression offered no further clues as to what to expect. In anyone else, the calm itself might have been revealing, but Mycroft chose his staff well.

Halfway along the corridor, the door into the French minister's room was ajar, offering a glimpse of a mass of wires and tubes, with a man somewhere in the centre. Over the hisses and beeps of machinery, a muted conversation was taking place between a sombre doctor, a worried-sounding interpreter and a tetchy Frenchman.

Sherlock dragged his eyes away from the doorway and headed further on down the bright corridor.

>>>

With his hand on the doorplate, Sherlock took a deep breath, then breezed into the room, saying with cool indifference, “So how many cracked ribs then?”

“Three,” said Mycroft, who was sitting upright on the edge of the high ITU bed, with his legs dangling over the side. He was pale and damp with perspiration, but there was only one wire in sight, running from the white plastic clip on his finger to a small portable pulse oximeter. “It's most inconvenient,” he added, wincing as he twisted to watch Sherlock pace across the room.

The two brothers regarded each other warily for a moment.

“So you could tell?” asked Mycroft eventually. "Then why did you drop your coffee? Why are you here."

“Obviously you were wearing a vest. Even you couldn't have gained that much bulk since last Tuesday. But that's hardly perfect protection is it? And the way you fell... Well, it looked more like blunt trauma than a through-and-through bullet wound. But you were behind the bloody news ticker Mycroft! And by the time the camera angle shifted, your people were in the way and... and I wasn't sure...”

And wasn't _this_ embarrassing? His voice, which had been getting tighter and tighter throughout, finally cracked into a sound like a duck being strangled.

He had been _almost_ certain Mycroft was going to be sitting there waiting to mock his dread with a smug smile. But the data had left far too much room for uncertainty. What kind of bullet? How fast? At what angle?

“Sherlock...”

“It's not like you to put yourself in harm's way Mycroft,” said Sherlock, taking refuge in petty jibes. “Don't you stay in the background and pay people to do that kind of thing for you?”

Mycroft shrugged – his uninjured side only. “That wasn't when we were expecting them to strike,” he said. “The vest was merely a precaution, not part of a premeditated plan to fake my own death. No, don't deny that it crossed your mind, though I fear your flatmate has been showing you too many action movies if you entertained the idea for even a moment. But it does work to my advantage if certain other parties think I'm out of commission for the time being.”

“And if I thought you...”

“Honestly, I didn't expect you'd even have heard about it yet – you're hardly glued to rolling news usually and no-one's given out my name yet. Still, a distraught family member dashing to my bedside will help lend credence to the story, so thank you Sherlock.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” snapped Sherlock. “I'll leave you to your scheming then.”

“Oh, come here little brother,” said Mycroft patting the bed on his undamaged side. “Please?”

The bed didn't sag at all under their communal weight, but their shoulders pressed together anyway.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Sherlock, meaning, _I'm sorry for every time I've put you through this. Through that first jolt of fear prompted by a grainy CCTV image or a brief call from a police source. Through the hellish dash across the city, not knowing whether you'd find me dead or barely hanging onto life amid wires and machines. And through waiting in hospital corridors for grim-faced doctors to list injuries and prognoses._ And also meaning, _Let me go after them. They hurt you and I will hunt them down and make them pay._

“Thank you,” said Mycroft, meaning that he understood. “But they caught the shooter at the scene. He's known to the DGSE, so I don't think there's much detective work to be done.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. Having offered his help for once, it was disconcerting not to be needed.

“Wait. Maybe you could help me get out of here. Yes, a diversion would be the thing. If there's anyone hanging around trying to find out my condition, they're bound to take an interest in you,” said Mycroft. “Hmm. Head out of here looking upset, go to the canteen, sniffle into a cup of tea, wait and see who approaches with sympathetic questions. That should flush them out and keep at least one of them busy while I vacate this bed for someone who really needs it.”

Sherlock nodded his assent to this plan and Mycroft pressed the buzzer beside the bed to summon his PA, who was quickly tasked with a mission to establish a safe route to an obscure exit, where an unmarked car would be waiting.

“So,” said Mycroft once she had left and they had a few minutes to kill. “Have you heard the new recording of the Enescu Sonatas yet?” he asked, for all the world as if it wasn't nearly five years since they'd last shared a civilised conversation about music. “I thought the violin was passable, but the piano was about as lively as our French friend over the corridor.”

Sherlock let his lower lip wobble, and drew several shuddery and uneven breaths while forcing himself not to blink. He was, after all, going to have to make this diversion look convincing.


End file.
